


Apocalypse Song

by cannibae



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, End of the World, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Personification, Personification of Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-08 12:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21476167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibae/pseuds/cannibae
Summary: The child knew well his task, what he should have done and when.Everything was written, the design checked and re-checked, drawn up right after the first killing, after Abel's death.It was just a matter of time, but the thought of the End had always been there. The four knights that had guaranteed for thousands of years the natural course of events were running out of their last lifecycle: War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death wanted retirement.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

** 25 years before the end of the world.**

"Humans are weak, don't you know that?"

The kid was peering with prying eyes the park, surrounded by the dead trees and the greyish atmosphere of the sky announcing a light rain.  
He was sitting with the old man in a tuxedo, on a non-existent and accurately made up bench, that no one was able to see, except for them: the blonde strands of hair of the kid were usually messed up by the wind, falling on his eyes, but the old man's boney fingers were ready every time this happened, keeping the kid comfortable and moving them on his forehead instead.

"I know."

The knowing tone of voice but typically childish betrayed his age: it didn't really matter anyway, their appearance was just a façade.  
If the boy should have had an age, it would have been the same age as the old man.

The child knew well his task, what he should have done and when.  
Everything was written, the design checked and re-checked, drawn up right after the first killing, after Abel's death.  
It was just a matter of time, but the thought of the End had always been there. The four knights that had guaranteed for thousands of years the natural course of events were running out of their last lifecycle: War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death wanted retirement.

"They fear that when we come, there will be the Apocalypse. They are wrong, but you know it, don't you?" 

His voice was croaky like he had a metal splinter stuck in his throat and every time he talked he seemed to make a painful effort.  
And yet, he was always compound, stoic.  
The dark sunglasses and their light frame made his angular and sharp features more bearable: the kid knew that if he would take them off, everyone in that park would have been dead, and considering their age, he was sure that the old man wouldn't.  
And he didn't.  
Instead, he kept speaking, pointing his finger to one of the children, sitting in the sandpit: his head, covered in curls, was bent over his bucket and spade, the shadow of his eight years on his chubby cheeks.  
The kid on the bench found him funny. 

"He will die too. Everyone here will be your exclusive victim."

The kid smiled: he was born for this, he knew it since he had opened his eyes for the first time.  
He was distracted from his deep thoughts by the voice of the father of the kid on the sandpit, that now was running after a dog. 

"Will, we have to go!" 

The old man got up from the bench unexpectedly, placing his boney hand on the shoulder of the boy, and he kept looking at him full of pride, before speaking again, forcing him to take his eyes off from the scene to watch him in the eye, through the sunglasses.  
It's a privilege and the boy knew it.  
He respected the old man as a father.

"How will humans call you, from now on, little one?"  
"Hannibal."


	2. Chapter 2

**15 years before the end of the world.**

He liked Louisiana: the heat of the bright spring sun warming his skin, kissing his cheekbones, he liked the sea and he liked listening to fishermen working during the early morning.  
There was life in this country and he gladly took nourishment from it.  
He was still growing stronger and still developing patience, calm, looking forward to Doomsday.  
As a hobby, he always presented himself as a young man, with typically European features -exotic, in a way.  
He was Hannibal, a medical student in exchange from a French University -he was not French, anyway, he belonged to every nation in equal part.  
He knew that his appearance was destined to change and get old faster than any of his colleagues, betraying him and his unfailing body: his abdomen would become softer in a matter of time, his skin would get wrinkled.  
He was not scared, however, he understood that this was a little price to pay to be immortal, his age destined to be a paradox, just like his identity.  
Not the fake one, of course.  
His delicious figure seemed to belong to another century: he had often been praised for his unnatural features, as his refinement, his grace, his manners and he smiled every single time; many thought about that smile out of shyness, the humility of that grin, useful only to increase approval, respect and admiration for the young man.  
Others interpreted it as pride and they didn't worry about it, nor they complained, finding it somehow right, fitting for him and his behaviour. W hy shouldn't he be proud for something so explicit? It wasn't a hidden talent or feature, it showed naturally and it was crystal clear.

Everybody loved him and everybody wanted him: from an easy and simple discussion about classical music and his studies during a fancy dinner or more casual and unpretentious sex.  
He granted it, just for fun most of the times, and never for love, even when many fell for him.  
He rejected every one.  
He had to.  
It was what they expected from him and his somewhat superior -but never disrespectful- behaviour, and it was also the right thing to do: in his position, catching feelings for anyone meant chaos.  
But Hannibal was oh so charming, it wasn't possible not to be blown away by his general appearance: always incredible, always too perfect as if he really was unnatural; he smiled when people complimented him that way because they weren't exactly wrong.  
He still was the Apocalypse.  
He wasn't human but he surely was natural, _the natural flow of events._  
He felt his duty on his shoulder especially when he was in big open spaces, surrounded by many people: unfortunately for him, public parks were, above all, the places he liked the most and he often attended them, in his human and inhuman form.  
It's there that, for the first time, he felt the need to talk without waiting for someone to notice him, while he was drinking his wine at a boring university party.  
He approached a boy who seemed to be younger than him, surely no older than nineteen, looking quite tired, his face scrunched up by a sort of weariness, his hair messy but fluffy and Hannibal felt the physical need to touch them, to feel their softness and to forget, for a moment, who he was supposed to be in fifteen years.  
Some noises distracted him and he noticed the dog that the boy was cuddling, placed with its nice coffee coloured muzzle between his thighs, while both of them were recovering from playing, with its pinky tongue out.  
When Hannibal finally took his place near him on the bench, the boy didn't seem distressed or disturbed by the unexpected ambush and merely checked him out, as if he was not seen.  
Of course, Hannibal noticed it. 

"Name?" 

"Ellie." 

He didn't quickly answer him, instead, he gazed at him, noticing at first how his eyes were accurately being avoided; the boy didn't seem to be very fond of eye contact and, considering his answer -because he wasn't clearly stupid to answer with a name that wasn't his-, he probably wasn't prone to talk about himself.  
Hannibal was sure that he wasn't the problem, he couldn't be, at least for eye contact: the boy kept his head bowed on his dog while he was petting him, he didn't allow his eyes to wander the park.  
It was a general behaviour, he was not protecting himself and creating forts especially against him, but against the world.  
And Hannibal felt heartened.

"I meant yours." 

"I'm Will." 

Will, Will, Will... 

_He was the kid._

The kid with the dog, when he was with Death a long time ago.  
They were in Louisiana back then? No, they weren't.  
That was odd.  
Hannibal was strangely sure that that kid was now in front of him: he replayed the moment in his head to remind himself what Death had said to him, his task, and he had always heard someone calling his name from afar, distracting him every time from the confused mumbling gibberish -with all regards, of course- that Death was muttering with his croaky voice.  
Every time, someone exclaimed his name to bring him back home: it was him, always him.  
The dog was not the same and and signs of maturity had changed a bit his face, but it was him.  
The funny kid playing in the sandpit.  
When Will brought back his attention on the dog -on Ellie- Hannibal knew that he didn't have any intention to ask his name back and he was tempted to give up, wait until the boy won't get up from the bench and escape that embarrassing situation.  
But Will didn't seem ready to move very soon.  
So Hannibal took out from his bag a pencil and a drawing paper and started to draw what someone would have seen from behind the bench: his powers, allowed him to do it.  
Basically, he was cheating. He was always cheating.  
He started from a tree near their bench, but it took him sometime: it was slender and rugged, it reminded him of Death and he dismissed his intention to draw it, focusing his attention on a couple of people walking, hand in hand, near an old, majestic oak, looking rather glorious.  
The couple was so full of life and love that Hannibal could feel it from that distance: he wasn't disgusted by the sensations, he felt warm and cosy.  
He scared himself and focused on his back and Will's back that could be seen from the point of view he decided to assume: the details of Will's flannel shirt, his hair falling chaotically even behind his head, as if he just woke up, the tension of his shoulder, caused by his position, prone towards his dog.  
Then he started to draw himself: he knew he wasn't Hannibal anymore because he couldn't hear birds chirping or people laughing anymore, he couldn't hear Ellie's erratically breathing.  
He was in his inhuman form.

"You are very good." 

The voice coming was muffled but he heard it anyway.  
That was odd too but he remained stoic. 

"Thank you."

"Are you learning it at University?" 

"No, I'm studying medicine." 

Will seemed confused by his last statement but he didn't dare to ask.  
He kept looking at the drawing, traced only with a pencil, and be amazed by it.  
His attention to the dog was completely blown away by the new attraction of Hannibal's hand moving on the paper, tracing lines non-sensical in the beginning, becoming something he could see and touch, with clear attention to every detail, like he wanted to draw a photograph taken only with his eyes. 

"That's us." 

Stating the obvious, Will pointed to the two figures on the bench and turned his head, realising from where Hannibal was ideally drawing, realizing that he was on that bench, without a desk and the only support of his thighs.  
It couldn't be true, he was probably imagining it. 

"Yes." 

The boy decided to keep his mouth shut to restraint himself from mumbling nonsensical words and embarrass himself, ruining everything he gained in a little spare of time.  
Watching that guy drawing -God, why didn't he asked his name?- was relaxing, blissful, almost natural.  
He felt at ease and lately, it didn't happen often with all the shit going on at home, with his father making all genre of sacrifices to grant him school and a normal teenage life: if he hadn't it, it surely wasn't his father fault, but only his.  
He was a freak and that was everything that could be said about him.  
His good taste in music couldn't save him, nor his good grades at school or his dream work at the FBI, to save people or give them justice.  
He was a freak who could read minds, who said hollow and creepy sentences that scared his school mates.  
He knew, deep down, that this description didn't actually fit who he was and that he himself felt far away from it; he didn't saw himself as a freak but he grew up feeling bad about himself and his powerful empathy.  
He didn't saw his potential in it, he felt it as an insormountable obstacle.  
But right now, with that guy drawing them next to him, everything seemed to vanish.  
He would have wanted to have the power to freeze time and to stay forever there, like this, taking nourishment from the very sight of it, but he knew he couldn't.  
His dog wanted to go and he couldn't ignore it, it was becoming rude. 

"What's your name?" 

"Hannibal Lecter." 

Ah, here it was his unforgiving luck.  
His accent should have given a suggestion to him, but he wasn't paying attention; Hannibal didn't interest him yet when he asked to present himself, so he didn't actually hear every shade of his voice.  
Now he heard his low, baritone voice, calming and soothing, his accent curving like velvet around every English word he pronounced. 

"You here for study?"

"Yes, I'm in exchange from France." 

Will felt insatiably curious. And stupid. He damned himself, mentally because he didn't have any more time.  
Fuck. 

"I hope to see you again before you will return to France." 

Hannibal only nodded, with the micro-expression of a smile at the side of his lips, looking forward for it.  
Will waved at him and started running with the dog, leaving Hannibal alone on the bench: deep down the Apocalypse knew that they would meet again.  
Even if they weren't destined to.  
He would have made sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker, so if there are any mistakes, please tell me!


End file.
